


Popping Balloons

by ApatheticByDefault



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bonds, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApatheticByDefault/pseuds/ApatheticByDefault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's addictive, pushing myself more and more each time. Pushing him more and more each time, like pressing firmly down on a balloon in the hopes that it won't burst, emitting a loud pop that sends tingles down children's spines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I might upload a second part to this, I'm not sure. I'd like some feedback for improvement and all of that, if possible.

"So, is it true?" Ian asks, trying his best to hide the evident fear in his nearly trembling voice, the lines situated on his face betraying him. "You getting married."

As much as the sound resembles a buzzing in my ears, cut off by the sounds of the whirring wind thrashing around me, the voice manages to bite at my skin, and I picture my hands quivering around the bottle I hold in my hand.

I want to tell him to fuck off. To just step aside and garner himself the ounce of mental stability and protection I know he deserves. At this point, his constantly close proximity to me borders on self-hating.

My mind flashes to the woman my father directed me to marry, to elope with. Not caring enough to commit to actually being at the hypothetical shamble of a union, he had only uttered the bitter instructions to rid himself of the latent shame of having a homosexual for a son.

It felt weird to think about. How someone so marked by anger and infliction of pain could actually care so much. I don't think it's a blind hate for sodomy as a whole that earned me the purple bruise running along my brow line to my swollen eyelid. There's a part of me, deep and buried down, that believes there's something more to it.

I just do.

"You should leave," I say.

It's even obvious to me that I don't mean that in the least. It's addictive, pushing myself more and more each time. Pushing him more and more each time, like pressing firmly down on a balloon in the hopes that it won't burst, emitting a loud pop that sends tingles down children's spines. It's seeing him come back to me, giving me another chance like I'm actually worth it, that keeps me going, stops my facade from crumbling.

It's a great risk, that, one day, he'll just stop. Surrender himself to sanity and let go of any thoughts of loving me or of me loving him, and just let it all go. Crushed under the foot of the world, so I'd feel my life sucked of air. The cost would be too great, but I can't see myself living at all without a push of his tongue, somehow telling me that there actually is someone who cares about me. That I haven't been delusional this whole time.

Life as a Milkovich, things could go either way, and either might end in crippling pain.

The way I see it, there isn't anything for me to lose at this point.

So I know he'll say something, he always does.

But it's always surprising that he has the nerve to, the mind, because even I can barely hear coherency in my words. Like a whisper, I'm rarely certain I've spoken at all, usually only drowning in my thoughts and the harsh liquor burning at the inside of my throat to wash down the lies and swear words.

"You're not answering the question." His voice low and raspy.

"You never do." He doesn't actually say the last part, but it practically is as if he did, because it's written all over his face, whether I'll give in to looking at it or not.

I eventually succumb to the urge though, catching a profile view as he turns his head to side, looking off a distance, like I'm not obviously the only thing his thoughts refer to.

It's not like I don't know I won't be able to go through with it. Not for the sanctity of marriage or anything like that. Just the nausea that I can already feel sweeping over me, walking down the aisle to someone I don't know. Handing myself off in a form of modern slavery, to the sickly sight of someone I could never love. Could never even be the slightest bit attracted to.

"So, what if I am?"

And it's a stupid question. One either of us could probably write an essay in retort to. I refrain from cringing, because it obviously means a lot to him. If the grimace on his face is anything to go by. And it means a fluttering bit to me, even if I might not willingly admit it for a long while, if ever.

But, in the back of my mind, I hope I do. Soon.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

A slice of pain, chilled, runs up my back, nearly paralyzing me of thought. It's not the anger in the words, or even the fact that the anger is still masked by slight affection, but the fact that I fully agree with the boy. For what I know is his stance on the matter. It's mine too.

I just can't show it in quite the same way.

It hurts to think the conversation might be wasted, but I just want to hear him say something more. And I hope it won't shatter at my insides.

"No." The word doesn't feel like a response to the question, just a word said to smooth things over.

I don't like hearing myself speak. It doesn't really sound like me. At least, not to me. I feel trapped, only able to present a face to the world parallel to the one I actually know to be my own.

It scares me. I think I might be the only person who actually knows it.

I expect a laugh to escape from him, something presenting the prospect of eventually finding the courage to move on from the hurt I know I'm inflicting upon him.

Nothing.

I crane my head upwards to look at him, into his eyes. And they look tired, more tired than I've ever seen them before or with anyone else. I think of looking away, will myself to. But I'm entranced by it, and I stay still, facing him, hoping he can't see me. That he'll only see right through me, like anyone else might. An unknown force straddles at my chest and pushes down at my insides.

I think it's me.

"She's pregnant." Ian says, and I can already make out his eyes glazing over, even from this distance. Because there is more to work with than just my sight.

That's the part that makes me want to hurl. I didn't think my dad was actually going to tell anyone that. Not even Mandy, completely oblivious and in her own sanctioned world, where there isn't anything to concern anyone else but her. Or maybe Lip.

Get married or have everyone think you're a complete and utter tool.

She's not even pregnant. And if she were, it wouldn't be mine.

I don't know her, haven't even seen her yet. I think she's another sex slave, or something. I definitely haven't slept with her. Not with anyone since the incident.

It's all I see anymore, I don't need another reminder. And I'm not even sure if I can trust anyone in that way anymore.

But that's not true.

I sigh, beginning to get up, grasping the bottle tightly in my hand, like it's my world spinning loosely on an ever tilting axis, migrating further away from me.

I can't tell if my steps are just extremely loud now or if I'm being precisely followed, each step I take in synchrony with the ones Ian takes from behind me.

"No." I drop the bottle, the glass shattering on the pavement, dozens of pieces of it reflecting the broken appearance of my face. "That's just a rumor, it's not actually true."

Because it's not. But I know that's not the part that even matters anymore.

"And what about the rest of it?" His voice void of the emotion which his face and quickly moving fingers must have stolen.

I sensed him walk closer to me, each step more near me grabbing ahold of the strength I might bare to shove him away.

"It's true," the words frozen on my lips, my eyes shot over to Ian's, where I could see a vision of myself in the boy's gaze. It didn't look that much like me.

Ian scoffed, pushing his hands into his jean pockets, a sort of a smolder now on his face. Like he couldn't believe this was actually going to happen.

I couldn't either.

"No. You can't." He bit down on his lip, and there was almost anger in his eyes, directed solely at me, where it was free to sting at my skin.

"Excuse me?" I asked, shaking my head at the thought.

He didn't have any idea what I was capable of. But he was right on that one thing. I couldn't.

And I wouldn't.

But it's not like he's allowed to know that.

"You have got to be kidding me right now." His hoodie moved in the wind.

Warm but still there, where the heat of summer had managed to escape from between my fingers. Slipping from my palm like a fistful of scorching sand, memories that felt like they'd been made only days before were packed with heat and pools of sweat dripping down his neck, just up until the day when everything had changed.

And it had been going so well. Even I could admit that to myself.

No denying it, because it was the truth.

Raw and real and haunting.

"Give me two good reasons why I would be." I stepped threateningly close to him, but he didn't back down.

I wouldn't expect him to. He never had. And I guess that's what I like so much.

My fingers clenched, not from fear, not from anger. From instinct. This is all I know, it's what I am, it's what I do.

Unclenching, clenching again, not knowing what postition to fit best. Everything about the moment from my perception seems skittish, as if the rest of the neighbourhood might drop in at any moment.

"You love me." He almost barely whispered it, but those three words were stronger, held more of an impact than any words he'd ever said to me before.

My heart froze in my chest, and my warped mind envisioned my family behind me, anyone behind me, hearing the words and gasping. Or worse. Having guessed them to be true all along.

Before even really thinking about it, I reached over and punched him hard in the stomach, looking down at him groaning as he keeled over, never being one to give up that easily.

I instantly regretted it. That punch wasn't meant for him, it was meant for everyone who caused me to hide. To have my own thoughts eat away at me, threatening to suspend my inner turmoil to the outer regions of my body. He was only in the way.

But I figure there isn't any going back now.

I choke back the cry that threatens to escape from between my lips, hoping that Gallagher doesn't hear it. Though I have a feeling the other boy would have percieved it as one whether I'd made a sound or not.

An apology is almost on my lips, and that scares me, so I work quickly to swallow it down, gasping where it should be the boy bent infront of me to do so.

I don't want to hear the second reason.

"And you're gay." This time, I feel it pierce at my skin, close to drawing blood. But it's not his glare, or even the words. It's my own grip, nails scraping at the skin and pinching at my arm. I hastily let go.

He's not supposed to say stuff like that. I didn't think he ever would. Not now, not ever.

But he just did. And a swell of pride runs through me, and it's hard to contain.

He actually did it. He actually stood up to me. He finally stopped caving in. Ironically enough, where he now scrambles to get up off the floor.

Like something is scraping at my insides, I work hard not to choke. It hurts.

I know that. We both do.

So, why do we both continue to act like we don't?

"You say some really stupid shit." I sneer the words out. The real contempt isn't toward him.

It's not a denial. It's not even true.

With every word of affection I've dared to recite to this boy, I imagine my skin being pulled back, layer by layer, until the real Mickey is visible.

But I'm not sure I want to be seen yet.

I can see from this point that I've hurt him more than physically. I know that. But the Mickey I am and the one other people think I am are two separate things.

"Please. Just don't do this."

I don't tell him I'm not going to. I don't think I trust that word won't get around if I do.

I turn away. It's more than just the action. It's me silently begging him to leave. To protect himself, before I can't.

The ache in his groin still evidently there, he stands up now, seemingly towering over me from behind.

"After all we've been through, you're not going to leave me in the dark like this."

"We haven't been through anything! You have." I snap my head back to face Ian, willing myself to cautiously take a step back, willing him not to step in closer.

He steps in closer.

"That's not true, Mickey." He puts his hand up in protest, and I almost mistake it for a threat.

It all feels like one.

And because it's not, I reach up and swing my fist at him, colliding solidly with the side of his face hovering above his pale cheek. I hear a crack I'm sure is just the sound of my fist, and try not to cry out.

I want him to run, to leave.

Because I'm not strong enough to.

The cry I hear from him doesn't sound like a cry of physical pain.

I'm almost relieved when his hand comes up to jab back at my stomach, pushing me forward so that I crash downward onto the pavement below us, nearly smacking my head in a fluid motion. He brings his foot up to my pelvic area, halting my actions, me willingly surrendering the advantage, even if he doesn't realise it.

"You can't keep treating me like this, Mick!" The shout cutting through air, travelling directly to my ears, I openly cringe. "I'm not always going to be hear for you to step all over me!" His words roll off his tongue too easily for my own liking, I know he's right.

I can't keep treating him like he isn't the only person in the world who really means something to me, where it counts.

And, what's worse, I think he might still come back, one final time, to let me hit him in the gut, to cast scars tracing along his skinny arms and wrists with more than with my weapons but with my words.

"Good," I yelled, "don't!" I tried my best to look away, but his eyes followed me. "Just fucking leave me, it won't be the first time."

I think I might have let too much slip, my words playing over and over in my head.

_"It won't be the first time."_

"What are you talking about?" His words are softer now.

"Don't act like you don't fucking know. I know there isn't anybody else who actually cares about me."

And as soon as the words leave my mouth, I realise I actually believe it. More than anything else.

The pressure he held over me lightens slightly. "That's not true. You have Mandy and..." he trails off, avoiding my gaze.

And it's good, it gives me enough time to bat away the tears brimming at my eyes, threatening to dispatch everything I've ever worked for.

"You and I both know it. Even Mandy doesn't care. Not really. You think I don't know what I actually mean to her? Nothing." My tongue is dry, the words sucking moisture from the inside of my mouth.

He looks at me, actually looks at me, and I know I have an opening.

I take it, because I'm not sure I'll ever get another one.

"She didn't ask." I know what I'm talking about, before I've even finished. "I was bruised and battered, and she didn't care. I think she was more amused than anything."

I remember it now, her poisoned glance, like it didn't bother her at all. And she knew who'd done it, but she didn't care about that either.

"That's not true, Mickey." His hands move to my shoulders now, and it's one of the most comforting touches I've ever felt. "Mandy does care about you. A lot." his voice wavers, and I can tell even he has his doubts.

But I don't, not anymore. Not since I'd heard her chuckle.

I would never, not ever, laugh at my own sister's suffering. Not physically possible.

And it's okay, because I know we're not actually a family that cares. We never will be.

We all act like family is important, like it matters, but not when this is who you're related to.

It doesn't mean anything to me, not at all.

Not anymore.

"Grow the fuck up, Ian." It's the first time, in a long time, that I can recall saying his name aloud, and it's nice. It's smooth on my lips, crisp, cut, clearly spoken.

It's Ian.

"Nobody cares about dirty Mickey Fucking Milkovich, and I've grown used to it. You should too." My voice cracks. I know he won't comment on it, but it still feels sore on my throat.

I don't care about any of them. Not really.

I don't want or need them to love or even like or care about me.

But it sucks. That they deprive me of actually moving on with my life or feeling even the slightest stinge of happiness.

I can see the bruise on his eyelid already forming, and I hate it. It reminds me of my own, nearly already gone, skin shedding away at the cursed cells, when I'd been on the wrong end of a punch.

I have a guilt-inducing feeling that mine hurt more.

"That's not true," he says, and I feel like he's about to say something else. "I care about you." He looks away to say the last part, but, when he looks back at me, it's like he never did.

And that's when it's over. That's when it stops and I realise that I don't deserve this. That Ian doesn't deserve this.

"Don't," I grind out, pushing him from off of me and walking away.

He's still on the floor, staring after me, and it's then that I realise I haven't even been paying attention to my surroundings.

There isn't anybody else there, and I didn't have the mind to notice.


	2. For Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm planning on finishing this by the time the episode actually airs, but this was a really important part for me. I'm actually really happy with it, so, enjoy.

 

The walk home is dreadful. The wool of my furrowed sweater itches at my senstive skin, so a mingled feeling traces its way up my arms.

They're completely covered, and there isn't anyone in sight around to spot me, but I've never felt to be so naked.

The top material flops over my collarbone, the soft part between it and my icing chest bumping over in peaks, where the air slightly cools, arousing a shiver.

It's not even that cold. At all.

And the sweater might have been a touch of exaggeration, but, even with the warm weather outside, it's not what I'm used to.

Because the Milkoviches' house is much colder.

I sometimes wonder what it might be like to be a Gallagher.

Watching them occasionally rush by each other in fits of laughter, tears, and anger, always resolved by the end of the day.

However little money or savings, they're never not living a better life than I live now or ever.

"Where have you been, Mickey?" Mandy's face is stern, but her words are laughable, and I'm so far past that even.

It's a good question. After I'd left him, sprawled across the concrete floor in a haze, fire-tinted wisps of hair glistening in the mocking sunlight, everything went blurry.

I can recall walking for a while, a long one. The day as evanescant as my mood, the sun had already begun to set on me a long way before home, baring little patience for my trekking. 

It was surprising how few people had been out today, I didn't recognize a single face, so few to.

Seemingly poleaxed after Ian's words had been uttered, the rest of the day had been a daze.

I couldn't honestly say I had any recollection of anything important after that.

Like black and white, everything else felt barren to the touch, to the vision. Like the colour had been drained from the sky, as night time began to dawn, every thing and every thought sucked of saturation.

I turned to her on my heels, reaching up to thumb at my lower lip, wedging my palm.

"Friends." I muttered, coughing to distract her, maybe myself, from asking anything else.

That crooked smile of hers. "That Ian kid called, asking about you." And with that, she sauntered off into the kitchen, exposing her bare thighs, ass loosely covered by the lengthy long sleeve draped over her skinny torso and bony arms.

"That Ian kid." Like she didn't fully know him well enough to not only write a bestselling biography but reference him as an actual person holding any meaning in her life.

I chuckled at the ironic use of words, following her in, only because I was certain my dad wouldn't be there.

By this time, he'd either be asleep, heavy as an oversized rock, or downing lethal amounts of alcohol elsewhere. No inbetween.

"What did he want?" 

I shoved the chair away from the table, too far to reasonably want to now sit in it, before lying down on it, using it to hold myself up.

Spineless jellyfish.

Tossing the surrounding dishes from the barely white counter into the sink aimlessly, reaching up to twist sable strands of her hair around her finger, like she used to when she was much younger.

I was surprised they didn't break.

She meanders around the kitchen for a few steps, before pulling out a seat at the table as well.

Expecting her to behave more belligerently than that, my eyebrow raises at her. 

She ignores me for a short moment, like it's the thought of him worrying a wink about me that plagues her, and not me.

Wordless but temperamental, she has a special knack for making things seem like they're all about her.

Beleaguering blinks faced downward at the tired table, before finally surrendering the reverance to meet my eyes.

"Mandy." The name sounds patient, doing so well to mask the bitter resentment I'm close to feeling for her if she doesn't voice her thoughts quickly enough.

"Listen," there's a slight gasp of laughter in her voice, maybe to suggest she herself can't quite believe what's about to be said to me, "he just sounded really upset."

It's meager. Nearly thirty seconds, I'm spared important details. 

It's just how Mandy is, how she's always been.

Even when our mother had been around, there was little she'd say to her, and especially us.

Her words to us were made known through loud music blaring from her bedroom, in shouts, serenading us with window-shattering recitals that reflected her hidden emotion impeccably. 

It was just hard for us to know that, she never let us in.

To her bedroom, that is. Not metaphorical at all.

"About what?" I pressed, reaching down the pick out some grime from beneath my fingernails. 

No idea how it always gets under there.

The trampled look on her face, she peers under the table, me fully knowing there wasn't anything worth looking for down there.

"The wedding." Her dark eyes directed right at mine, no turning back now, because the ball had already dropped.

She signed eventfully, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a shake of her shoulders. "You're not seriously going to go through with that, are you?"

The air I'd allowed to make way into my mouth felt to dry at my salivated cheeks, and the friction of my tongue attempting to move to convey an intelligible sentence caused minor irritation along my jaw.

"What's it to you?" I did that thing with my eyes I did when I didn't want people knowing I had to think long and hard about what to say next, cocking my left eyebrow up and leaving my mouth slightly agape with my eyes trancing downward precariously.

"You haven't even brought us to meet her." She scoffed, pulling a hair tie from her wrist to flip her hair into a messy bun.

It was a good start, considering I already knew she was working an angle with it, not being able to be straight with me yet, or initiate a conversation right to the main point.

She probably figured I'd lash out otherwise, throw the small nearly-broken table in a rut and storm out of the room to only flop onto my bed, maybe lying down groaning for the rest of the night.

I sometimes think it would be easier if she didn't think she'd need to do that with me. Didn't try to sugarcoat the sour words and just tried to refrain from making me feel malicious in my exterior.

Now, it was my turn to scoff, inwardly, looking off for a second. "Why would I do that?"

And honestly, why? I mean, bringing anyone back to our Milkovich House of Horrors would only leave the relationship spiralling downward, with my counterpart running off gracelessly down the steps, tripping over themself in an attempt to rid themself of the contemptible escapades.

And I know the truth. She'd never think of me in an actual relationship, who would?

Maybe if she saw me around Ian...

So, why would I make it out to be a real one?

"Marriage is a big step," her hair rapidly becoming further disheveled, with her reaching up to claw at her bony elbows.

I turned my head back, inspecting the visible rooms, knowing that we were the only two residents in the house, but still not feeling quite that safe in retrospect.

"Oh, is it really?" I could feel my face twisted into an obscenity, trying hard not to seeth at her. "Name one marriage, not some fucking fairytale wedding, that didn't go completely awry."

Our parents' came to my mind, flashed through quickly, the visual gone, but the profound depth of what that meant being bound to stay with me for the rest of the night.

That was the funny thing though. I didn't think their relationship had ever not been a complete brutality.

We weren't allowed to know, that's certain.

The sweater felt dampened, maybe drenched by surreptitious drips of sweat, more easily clinging to my body with every word.

I can't really feel the seam of my mouth, my mind refuses to process it, instead just allowing for the words to roll easily off of my tongue.

"You can't, because it's just a fucking piece of paper, but still, that piece of paper might save my life, but you wouldn't know that. Nor would you care to." My fingers clamped down on the edge of wood, easing me out of the deathtrap of a chair and out of the room.

She followed me out, in a short run. "What are you even talking about, Mickey?" Her voice began to raise with strain.

"You should know!" I yelled back more loudly, those words working to drain me of much needed energy.

I sat down on the couch, not even looking at the remote, which I would have otherwise immediately used to power the television, to distract me from my thoughts.

My hands just found their way  to my head, intertwining themselves in such short strands of my spiky hair. I didn't even realise until a moment later when she joined me that it had become so habitual.

As soon as she sat down, I felt like I'd been scalded, burnt through hard layers of skin, to an even gooier core.

I thought of all the years, years gone by in which I'd stayed locked in my room, at my own accord, pondering anything I could think of.

Why things worked this way, why I felt a certain way about any single thing, why someone would ever repetitively act the way they did, why I was the only person who could see my hands tremble at the insults, why I was the only person that cared.

I eased my mind with knowledge, without a book, without a television.

Just with thought.

My mind works in strange ways, while I'm sweating down parts of my body which are ironically close to shivering , maybe from the chilled look from Mandy.

The Sharpie-marked coffee table, which I'm pretty sure was just recently stolen, looking quite unfamiliar, far from being studiously scratched, doesn't even let me want to kick my feet up.

It's most likely destined to face a certain disuse in that regard. I don't even know how long I'll actually last in this house.

"You know, I can't help you if you're not willing to help yourself."

Snort. "Did you get that from lip, or are you just trying to be annoying?"

She slapped at my thigh. "I did not get that from Lip." She chewed at her lip, eyes coming dangerously close to popping out of her sockets.

That would be a site.

"Woah, trouble in paradise." I look longingly at the television a metre or so infront of us. "Either way, it's working." 

It's been so long since I last just sat down and watched a movie. 

It was the one I watched with Ian, just letting my mind soak in the transforming pixels on the flat screen (stolen or swindled, if not completely obvious), just basking in the heat radiating from the boy seated next to me.

The silence that ensues is peaceful for me, but I can feel Mandy shifting on the couch uncomfortably.

"Please don't do it, Mickey."

"Do what?" I ask, turning my attention from the black screen to her, with wide eyes. I don't want her thinking I'm contemplating anything.

"Get married!" She yells, standing up and towering over me. It doesn't last long before she gets a grip at herself and sits back down.

"Well, if you insist." I use the arm of the couch to ease myself off of it, attempting to trail past her, to which, she grabs my arm and twists it.

Her nails dig into my skin, and it takes everything in me not to reach up and hit her across the head, anything to bat her crazy self away from me.

I have fairly sensitive skin, and I already know I'm bound to be marked with bruises my the end of this.

"Get off of me." I say. And with one look, she lets go. But her eyes are still staring daggers at me.

My eyes adjusted, fixating on her face too.

"I'm really sorry, you know, that your arm is bleeding, and that I'm too much of a bother to listen to, but there are far more important things at stake." She steps in closer.

"Your cuts will heal, so will your bruises, but if you get married, you will never get out of this."

I snort at the drama of it all. "I could always file for a divorce."

"Not in this neighbourhood," she snaps. "We don't live that life. You will never get out of it, at the most, you'll get separated, leaving everyone you know and love caught in between of the melodramatics." Her fingers scratch at her skin again. "You might not be physically chained, but you will forever be legally bound to that woman." 

She shakes. "And what happens when you find someone you do actually love?"

Someone.

"What happens then, Mickey? Because I know you don't love that wreck, you never will, and I know we haven't lived any life where that even matters, but it should. And I don't want you to throw away that chance so quickly, do you understand me?"

I ignore her look, even with my eyes still directed at hers, and avoid actually taking in what was just said, even though I already have, and stop.

"Who is that someone, huh? Who am I going to love?" I already know the answer, but she doesn't, and that's what matters most to me.

Because it's easy for me to know, to pay attention to the words that stay with me for weeks on end, but her, she has to put effort into it.

That's what counts.

And I don't ask the other question. I don't need to say it.

Who's going to love me?

Because I shouldn't have to throw it all away over a piece of paper. That's true. But also not over Mandy's words, which lack luster and analogy and even the slightest bit of inference.

"I don't know, Mickey. But they're out there. I know you probably don't believe in that stuff..." 

And it's the first time I've ever seen tears brim at her eyelashes that were for someone other than herself. 

She stays rooted in place, unfazed by my realisation. "...but it is so good, Mickey. It's... It's actually beautiful, and I never thought I would think that, but I actually do."

Her eyes close and open continuously. "And I'm fully aware of the fact that it's harder for you to think of it that way, but you are strong, Mickey. You don't have to hide from anything you think or feel. Your thoughts matter."

She sniffles. "So, please, don't throw them away like they don't, because I know, deep down, you do care. And if no one else does, that's fine. Let it be. Just don't do something you'll regret for anyone who can't give you the dignity and respect you deserve, not only as my brother, who I really don't want to see do something he'll regret for his entire life, but as a fucking human being."

Her hands diddle at her side, casting her face downward where a tear finally makes its way to her cheek.

"Please." It's one of the few times he's ever had the permission to see her cry, but she's human, and she has before, and I don't believe it will be the last time. "If not for yourself, do it for me."


	3. Runaway

When the day finally comes, the glow of my pale cheeks losing even more colour rival that of what can be seen of the sun from behind the tall building ahead of me.

I definitely wasn't planning on getting this far, but it's my safest bet now.

My feet find my will to walk back into it, and the whole place is dark.

There are so few people actually there for the occasion, not really anyone having cared enough to show.

Mandy is there, and her eyes keep moving back and forth, suggestively, and I send her a look saying that I know.

I actually thought I might have stopped this from happening sooner, but I haven't.

And I haven't even really seen this girl yet, only seen a picture, with cringworthy promises that she's gorgeous, from the person I trust the least.

A real catch, not likely, seeing as how he wouldn't dare to be there to see it.

Maybe because he too realises how fake it all is by now.

I never really thought my father would be the type to pretend.

The chimerically decorated room made my stomach swell, hot and churning in my stomach, that anticipated wave of nausea had already swept over me, far more early than how I'd actually expected it to happen.

I finally do end up seeing her, and she stares at me with dead eyes.

Like she's mute, incapable of communicating words, she stays voiceless through it all.

I allow a whimper to escape from my mouth, it feels like the most quindessential shred of evidence provided in showing I'm still human.

It's not a church. Obviously not.

And I'd feel less inclined to even step foot into the room if it were.

It's just a legal binding, something for my father to set the reigns on me with, without actually having to care enough to have a conversation with me that didn't start with profanity and end with a crack of knuckles against the side of my cheek.

My whole body starts to waver, and I'm already so far past being able to steady myself, so that Mandy has to rush over to my side and hoist me into place by my arm.

She looks disappointed.

I am too.

And with that, I mutter something about how I'll be right back, and my legs break into an unconvincing run.

I don't get far, just hault after I've been dispatched from the building, not thinking about the whereabouts of the trajectory, and slump up against the wall, sitting on the dirt-smeared pavement.

I'm shaking really badly, convulsing against the bricks, and holding myself down, with my hands wrapped around my head.

Flashes of heat run through my body, followed by rushes of cold, and it's difficult to differentiate between bodily produced scorch and the warmth of tears running tracks down my cheeks.

The thought that I'm actually crying, alone in public, outside from where I'm assumed to be getting married in moments, doesn't cross my mind until after I hear the footsteps.

The clacking of heels, followed by the sight of Mandy, almost moving in slow motion, running out of the building and looking around confusedly before her eyes are guided downward by my stumbling movements to shelter myself from her.

It had maybe been twenty minutes, and Mandy's hair and short flowy dress whisked around in the wind, standing tall above him.

She basked in the afterglow, where the sunset shone, illuminating the strands of hair outlining her shape.

She opened her mouth to say something, a smacking found faint in the wind where her lips parted slightly, before she settled for sliding down the wall next to him.

Her dress skirted the rim of the ground, where there wasn't a large cracking gap of dirt and, very likely, unseen insects, crawling around in the dirt, probably hiking themselves up her leg while she remained silent.

Only a short walk off, there was a street, where cars could pass by and blare their horns, and children could run about screaming at the time where kids of the hood came out to play sports and beat on each other.

But, and I swear, you would have heard a pin drop at the given moment.

"Look, you don't have to..."

"It doesn't matter," I quipped, raspiness on my tongue, "I can't."

I can't do it.

I mean, I wasn't going to, but I didn't think the main reason would be because I couldn't physically stand without hurling all over the ground.

Not likely anyone would notice though, might just camoflauge with the rest of the soot.

My voice came out in a low huff, but I'd never sounded so shrill.

She leans over to me, and a smile actually grazes at her lips. She looks a bit proud. "I'll cover for you."

I exhale. The tears have finally stopped flowing from my eyes. "Oh, yeah? For how long?"

She looks up, and I stand up. "What do you mean?"

I stretch. "You need to tell dad I'm not getting married. Tell him you boycotted the wedding, that you couldn't let me go through with it, just don't make it about me."

"Mickey! What?"

My feet started to lead me away from her at a quick pace, so I had to hop turning to her to curd the excitement building in my chest. "Just do it, Mandy. I'm counting on you."

On the way to the destination, I can barely feel much in my feet, just a numbness, as if they'd been dipped into a lake and treaded on for miles in a cool winter, hurded by slush and additional slurps of water sloshing onto my sneakers.

Only, it's not winter. And the road I'm currently running recklessly along is completely dry.

It's ironic to think that, just the other day, there weren't really any people out where I had to walk what felt like a mile to my house, without anyone to voice thoughts I wanted to scream to. While, as of now, the streets and sidewalks are crowded, with cars and children (for some reason, even at this time of night, in a bustling part of the town), and shovy women dressed in lacy scarves and sundresses.

Two women, both with golden trims of hair, sit on a terrace of some fancy-looking bar, laughing and falling over themselves, and, just as I run up alongside the patio, one of them stands and crashes into me, spilling her white wine all over my shirt.

I curse out, hearing stupid gasps of shock from the callow men and women lying drunkenly around them, on the floor and sidewalk.

Until I finally reach our neighbourhood, I feel the bones in my foot chilling, and it all seems that I'm just running on flesh and bone, like my callous skin isn't there any longer.

Some kids shove a hockey stick around, chasing after a beaten-up tennis ball, me retaliating with a jump over one of the kids lying around on the floor like an imbecile.

"Hey, knock it off!" One yells annoyed, like I haven't already run off and I'm going to come back to retaliate with a swift kick to his friend's head.

"Fuck off!" I yell over my shoulder.

I run up to my house, a surge of pain seizing my shoulders, and run way past it. Far past it, where I can see the lights are on and there isn't any good reason to stop to drop by. Not now, not ever.

My lower portion of my body is exasperated, but I'm thrilled, like I've been struck by lightning, like I'm a more trivial character in a video game. I don't have the will to stop yet, I just keep going, dashing down the street, huffing, with material from my jacket waving behind me in the wind, following my every sudden move like it's not latched onto my body by the upper sleeves.

My breathing, so continuous in rough pants, hitches after I've climbed, stomping, up the steps to the house and ringing the doorbell. I close my eyes, and move unsteadily, like I'm about to fall or pass out, and I feel like I might drift off if they shut for much longer.

I wait.

* * *

"He's gonna do it." My words linger in my mind, and I rub at my fingers nervously.

There isn't anything for me to see to actually wrack my nerves, but just the thoughts running wild in my head are enough to make me feel like I'm there. It's so illusive, I can already picture myself sitting in one of the aisles, just awaiting the vows, with my hands digging into whatever mahogany chair I'd sit in, right before my fists knuckle down to crush at my own thighs, having to stand up to waltz out of the building in an attempt not to crouch over and relieve myself of breakfast.

I haven't eaten much else all day.

"He's going to marry her. If he hasn't already." My voice is unevenly toned, turning to Lip, turning away, stepping around in a semicircle.

"And there's no going back after that, we're already hanging by a thread." My frantic gestures are enough for me to willingly pounce around in the same spot, hoping it will help to calm me down. It doesn't.

"Jesus," Lip jeers, whipping his head up, lighting up facing me, "you need to calm down, man."

It's easy for him to say.

"If he's going to get married to some random bimbo he initially had the nerve to knock up, after over a year of stringing you along, he's not worth it anyway." He pauses, lowering his voice slightly. "And, you know, with the bruises all over your face, you wouldn't even think that it would matter to you."

"I think it was partially my fault. I kinda provoked him."

Lip is already high as a kite, I can see it on his face, with the way that his eyes widen slightly more with each blow. "Are you fucking kidding me? Dude probably would have killed you if you'd given him the chance."

I shook. "I told him he couldn't marry her because he loved me. And he's gay." I turned my head, almost expecting him to criticize me for what I couldn't ever take back.

But it's easier to talk to Lip once he's been tampered with.

"Woah. Bold move man." Ash fell off of the paper. "What he say?"

"Honestly," I rose my voice on the first word, before dropping it back down, "not much of anything. But I think it meant more than if he'd actually answered me."

My level of hysterics diminishes valuably, the smell of smoked weed finding its way into my nostrils, which flared at the scent.

"You need to get over it, you know." He looks to the side, positioning his hands outward for a moment, looking off with a confused grin. "Find yourself some incredibly handsome rich guy from the Northside. Come on, you're capable."

I snort. But I'm still not amused. I can't be. Not yet.

"Woah, cool it down with the rambling, Lip. Your words are already starting to slur together."

Well, not yet, but we might need a head start. If there were anyone who couldn't communicate discernably while high, it would be Lip.

"Oh," he reaches out, like he's trying to grasp a cloud, "find yourself a, what do they call it, a twink!"

I have to grab at my chest to stop myself from heaving with laughter. "You want me to move on from the Southside's own badass closeted juvenile convict with some blond-haired freckle-faced twink?"

It has been a while since I'd gone back to the gay bar, my only time there on my own being to sanction myself from the crippling depression which had done a number on Monica.  
He chuckled too, his curly hair looking all sorts of weird ways in the hazy lighting, a smile etching at the bottom of his stout face. He looks like a puppy sometimes. "Whatever."

Is it wrong that that thought makes me want to kick him? "It would never work."

"Besides," I say begrudgingly, "I'm pretty sure I am one, and I think we've all got enough of that around here."

"Come on, Ian." His eyes wander around the room reluctantly, like he doesn't know where he is. "You deserve the best. A Class A prep of sorts. Polos and everything." Smoke fogs up his corner of the room. "The works."

"Is he going to wear pearls around his neck?" I choke out, and Lip bursts out into laughter, because he's so high by this point in time, what isn't funny anymore?  
I don't want to move on yet.

Over a year and a half of rushed fucks in cramped spaces and revival of skin-piercing words left at that for months on end.

But I don't tell him that. I think the look on my face says it all.

It's only a moment before the bedroom door shifts our way, and instead of seeing Fiona telling us to lower our voices, Carl walks in with a bat.

It's then that a short chime flows through the house.

"Some dude is at the door." Carl tosses the bat, which comes close to smashing me in the nose, and I catch it.

He walks out, and Lip gives me a quizzical look. "Where are you going?" He asks, like it's not completely obvious and he hasn't been paying any attention to any of what just happened in the last three minutes.

"What do you think? I'm going to go answer the door."

He blinks. "Just wait here," I grind out.

I edge myself down the stairs, gripping onto the wooden bat in both of my hands.

Night has barely begun, and I quickly look around, there isn't anyone in the living room or the kitchen. I'm basically completely alone except for a helpless Lip and ignorant Carl. So Fiona and the others must have gone out for dinner, or something completely unnecessary, like they usually do on a day like this.

It then occurs to me that it's probably not "some dude" at all but Mandy instead, leaving the celebration early. With her incredibly dark hair and broad shoulders, her silhouette could probably pass for a man's, especially when it's Carl doing the inspection.

Her name is already on my mind, and I'm ready to let it slip just until I swing open the door.

I scratch off the last four letters and add on five different ones.

"Mickey?" I questioned. I knew it was him. I just didn't know why.

His hands are shaking nervously, and I've never seen Mickey do so much as quiver in the cold. His hands rise up at his sides before sliding down quickly, giving me a strange sense of vertigo.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, gearing my eyes downward and sliding the bat against the wall, where it eventually just drops and knocks over some package of cereal that's on the floor (for some reason).

He'd probably just whip me with it anyway.

He scratches at his elbow, rolling the jacket up. "I needed to tell you something," he says in a short gasp, like he's recovering from a long sprint.

I resist the urge to just grovel, like I usually do, and decide to have a little fun instead. "What, you draw on your eyebrows?"

"No," he says, shaking his arms, getting impatient.

"You're actually a blonde?"

He sneers at me, but doesn't even take a look at the bat. "No."

"It's not all that important anyway, I guess. Seriously though, did you already miss your wedding dance?" I actually maintain a firm voice, and it doesn't even crack on the last two words.

I chalk it off as an accomplishment, but it doesn't really feel like one.

"I only want to dance with you." He raises his eyebrow cockily, like he's hoping that the cheesy line might win me over.

Any other day, it might have. But for today, I feel more like taking a swing at him myself.

Except, that's the thing. I don't. Not really.

"Aw, sweet," I chide. "Coulda saved me a song. You know. At your wedding." My voice does crack this time, and I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me turn away to catch at my breath.

Just stare right at him, until it is him who has to turn away.

"That probably wouldn't have worked too well." And it's now where I can hear how deflated he sounds, like he ran a mile to only get punched in the stomach.

But that's when a thought occurs, and it would take everything in me not to say it, so I eventually just succumb to the urge. "Wait. You left her? At the altar?" The words even startle me.

He chuckles, glancing downward, where I can see scarlet creep up the side of his right cheek. "Nah." There's slight amusement in his voice, but it seems out of place, given the circumstance. "I didn't even make it that far."

"So, you're not married?" I cock an eyebrow at him, but it's as my heart rate speeds up, and I can't help it, don't even try to deny it.

"Well, obviously not, stupid." He finally smiles, brightling, even in the dim light, and actually looks at me.

My stance loosens, and I shrug, looking up into his relief-stricken face. "Why not?"

And I think it's a stupid question. Even for me, and it seems he thinks so too. "Because!"

I think I already know the answer, but I'm definitely not going to bet on it. Not until I actually hear it. "Because what?"

"Because..." There's actually fear in his voice, and he looks away, finally surpassing the feelings running through his chest.

"Because I love you, and... and I'm fucking gay." He steps in without touching or looking at me in the eye, so that I have to swivel around to keep up with his gibbering.

The bruise situated above my eyelid had stopped swelling a fair while ago, but I feel the area throb slightly.

"But, like, it's not like I realised both of those things at the very same time. I mean, the first took a little longer, I'm not actually sure when I realised the second, but I know it was before the first." The awkward gesticulations blur together in my vision, and he races with my hearing to finish his thought.

"But, also, I don't really think that I realised even that until after I met you." He coughs. "Or, um, obviously after I met you, when did I meet you? I think it was a really long time ago anyway, but, um, after we, uh..." He trails off, before peering up right at me.

I can feel the seam of my lips part slightly.

"But, that's the thing." His lips purse, and his breathing slows down, as well as the motion of his tongue, no longer moving about erratically. "You already knew that." He shoves downward at the white shirt, ripping it out from the black jeans, where it had been neatly tucked, albeit soaked.

I blink twice, and a smile grazes my lips. I'm not sure if I heard correctly. "Could you say that all again, little slower, little more feeling."

He smirks, and the gap between his two lips enlargens, where I can not only see the smile itself but it written all over his face and in his eyes. The volume on his shallow breathing seems to be turned up as well.

"Go," I say, trying my best to mockingly sound impatient.

"I'm really sorry I hit you." He looks down bashfully, and it's a look on Mickey I've only seen once, right before this whole mess started.

"Mickey Milkovich? Apologizing?" I'm stunned. And I think there might very well be actual butterflies in my stomach fluttering about.

"Come on, come on!" Now the smile stretches to every corner of his face, and it's so much, I'm surprised his expression can contain it. "You were right, okay! You were right, and Mandy was right, everyone but me was right, get over it."

But, that's the thing, I don't think I'll be able to get over this for a long while. If ever.

I look up at the staircase, and while I don't see either of my two nosy brother's faces, I'm still hoping they climbed out the window of our bedroom.  
"What was I right about?" I ask, and the look on his face shows he probably expects me to ask him to repeat it all again, like it's never gonna end. "Huh?" I reach out, grasping at his waist, and scratching lightly with my nails. "What was I right about?"

He tries to run further into the kictchen, but I hold on more tightly, and he's not actually trying that hard to get away from me. "Stop!" He says.

"Are you ticklish?" I ask, digging in even more, where I can feel the soft patch of pale skin I haven't seen in so long.

"Um, yes!" He yells, his voice coming out really high, but adorably, nonetheless.

I let go, taking a step back, and raising my arms in surrender, where I see him reach out, like he's about to give me the same treatment, and I brace myself.

But instead, he only grabs my arms and pulls me in closer, until my body is almost solidly pressed up against his.

He's still smiling, we both are, when his lips graze over mine, and I jut my lower lip further, pressing it more smoothly against his. His arms actually reach up to drape around my body, curling over my waist, and I shiver against him when his hand settles against the hallow space of my lower back.

I don't hear anyone upstairs, but, at this point, I don't see the use in caring. Because it seems I've gotten everything I've been hoping for, and I don't really care who knows it.

But they're not there, I just hear the buzzing of video games from above me.

It's nice to hear. It means I'm clearly doing a lot more with my life and I want to laugh at that, when a burst of cold air brushes against our shoulders. But we still don't pull away, remaining unfazed by the world around us.

I kick the door behind me closed with my foot, just barely hearing a click, and pressing Mickey up against the counter.

We stay like that for a little while, just melting our lips together, and both pairs are warm, especially against one another, to the point where I reach my tongue out to press against his, and suckle, just for kicks.

He chuckles, and I do too, until we simutaneously pull our upper portions away from each other, still keeping our legs and hips up against each other. There's a slight smacking of our lips pulling apart, and I chuckle, and he just grins.

"You know, for the record, I love you too." I glance upward at him where he's inspecting every inch of my face, realising I really mean it, hoping he does too. "And... yeah, I'm pretty gay too."

We both burst into laughter at that.


End file.
